


Still a Builder Inside

by enigma731



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: 5+1 Things, F/M, Family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-25
Updated: 2015-08-25
Packaged: 2018-04-17 04:10:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4651749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/enigma731/pseuds/enigma731
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint Barton can never resist a dartboard. (Until he can.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Still a Builder Inside

**Author's Note:**

  * For [inkvoices](https://archiveofourown.org/users/inkvoices/gifts).



> So this started as a prompt about Clint and dartboards and somehow turned into Clint's relationship with projectiles in general and his own self confidence? I don't even know, but I hope you enjoy, inkvoices!
> 
> Thanks to [KristinaDavidovna](http://archiveofourown.org/users/KristinaDavidovna) and [samalander](http://archiveofourown.org/users/samalander) for cheerleading and plot help!

 

1.

The bar smells like moldy drywall, wet dog, and rotting cigarettes. It doesn’t even have a name, as far as Clint can tell, just a dying neon sign over the parking lot that reads ‘AR’ like it’s threatening the world because the B is out. There’s another sign in one of the windows advertising GIRLS, but there are none of those to be found tonight on the place’s sad little stage.

Not that Clint cares. There’s still plenty of booze to be had, and it's close enough that he’ll be able to stumble back onto base afterward. All he really wants is to pass out for one more night before finding himself deployed back to the desert. Just over an hour and he’s already on his fourth glass of bourbon, didn’t even make an effort to start with something less efficient tonight. Hell, he’d _like_ to just load up on shots and fall into bed, but that feels like crossing a line he isn’t ready for (yet), feels too much like a familiar childhood memory.

Unfortunately, drinking by himself is causing the opposite of the relaxed oblivion he’s searching for, making him twitchy and irritable instead. The voices of the couple seated at the sticky bar top a few feet away are driving him up a wall, a half-slurred argument about money and a pair of designer shoes the girl just _had_ to buy.

Clint stubs out his dying cigarette and drops the butt into the suspiciously damp ash tray that’s probably taken a swim in beer at some point in its recent history. He glances around for some kind of distraction--he’d like to punch out a few of the people around him for sheer annoyance, but he’s still above that, at least for the moment. There’s a jukebox in one corner that looks like some remnant of past civilization you’d expect to see in a disaster movie, and some karaoke equipment bearing an _out of order_ sign on the stage. Just as well. He’d have to be well past _bored_ and probably approaching _actually dead_ to consider that a real option.

The dartboard catches his eye on his second pass around the room, and he’s up on his feet heading for it without time for a second thought. There are five darts already sunk into the board, the cluster haphazard and far from successful. The darts themselves look like they’ve seen better days--one is even a bit bent--but Clint guesses he’d better consider himself lucky to find any at all, given the state of this place. He pulls them carefully from the board, running his fingers along the scarred points and barrels, straightening pieces of crushed flights where he can.

No one is watching, but Clint takes the moment to step back, getting a proper stance and considering the ways he’ll need to adjust for the worn equipment. His first throw hits the outer bullseye, just a few millimeters shy of dead center. Sloppy, he thinks, but then he’s already had more than a little to drink. The next two throws hit exactly where he wants them to, and he finds a rhythm from there. The rest of the room falls away as he aims, throws, listens to the familiar dull _thunk_ as each dart hits home. It feels almost like watching his hands from outside of himself as he retrieves the darts, starts the whole process again. He’s lost count of how many times he’s done this already by now.

“Not bad,” a voice cuts in just as his next throw lands, and the calm Clint’s managed to find shatters all at once.

He turns--too quickly, his head’s swimming--to see the owner of the voice, an older man in a long dark coat. And an eye patch, Clint realizes a moment later. He might be more than a bit buzzed at this point, but he’s definitely not imagining the eye patch.

“What're you supposed to be?” Clint asks, instincts telling him there’s a potential threat here, might as well go for intimidation. “A pirate?”

The man shrugs, taking a step closer. “You see a lot of pirates in the desert?”

A knot of unease begins to tighten in the pit of Clint’s stomach; he’s in civilian clothes tonight, but they’re close enough to base that it might be a lucky guess. Then again, it might not be.

“You come over here to challenge me or what?” asks Clint. He cocks his head toward the board, wondering how much damage the three darts still in his hand might be able to do if things go that way.

The man laughs, and there’s something about it that makes Clint feel as though he’s stumbled unwittingly into some kind of joke. “No, Mr. Barton. I came here looking for you. I want to offer you a job.”

 

2.

Bluebird isn’t the sort of place Clint would ever come to drink of his own accord. It wants to market itself as a bar, but it’s the kind of upscale establishment that specializes in unsatisfying hors d'oeuvres and fruity drinks that cost twenty bucks a glass. It even has a second floor, for private parties, like the one S.H.I.E.L.D.’s throwing tonight in honor of its latest crop of Operations graduates.

The place is only two blocks from the edge of the Academy’s campus, and that, at least, feels familiar. Not so different from the dives that pop up around every military base in the country. It reminds Clint of everything else at S.H.I.E.L.D.--polished up with a shinier facade, but deep down he knows all he’s done is traded one government job for another.

Clint has a beer in one hand and a few cheese cubes speared on toothpicks in the other, is wandering the room and looking for something to do. He isn’t close to the other recruits, learned better than that years ago. He wants nothing more than to skip ahead to the next part of this, the part where he gets to go back into the field, gets to do things he can at least delude himself into believing are _useful_. What he _wants_ is to get a stronger drink for himself, to forget all of the pretense and protocol, but he knows better than that, too.

Draining the last two swallows of his beer, Clint drops the bottle into a trash can with an audible _clink_ , then stuffs four of the cheese cubes into his mouth at once.

The dartboard is tucked away in the corner of the room, clearly not set up for tonight’s event, and it's a cheap one made out of cork to boot. Still, the stark pattern catches Clint’s eye, the bands of color beckoning him like lights on a familiar path home. There are no darts, he sees as he gets closer, and he spends a moment casting around the room for an alternative before realizing that he already has exactly what he needs cupped in one hand. The toothpicks from the cheese cubes are far too light to serve as darts for most people. But Clint knows he’s never been most people, and right now the added challenge is appealing.

He takes a couple of steps closer than he normally would, then backs up again. If he’s going to do this, he’s going to do it right. Clint takes the first toothpick between thumb and forefinger, puts all the energy he can into the throw. The toothpick lands, dead center, hangs there for a moment by its tip, then falls to the floor. The second time he throws, Clint adjusts, and this one stays where it’s supposed to, right in the middle of the bullseye.

Clint’s thrown all of the toothpicks once, has retrieved them and is about to throw again when he becomes aware of the woman watching him from one of the tables a few feet away. He doesn’t recognize her, but there’s a light in the warm brown of her eyes that makes him want to know her, want to find out who she is.

He flashes the woman a quick smile, then turns back to the dartboard, feeling her eyes on his back. He throws again, one toothpick to begin with, then two at a time until he’s used all five. When he turns to retrieve them, he sees that the woman has come closer, is now standing a couple of paces to his right. Exactly what he’s been hoping would happen.

“Enjoying the show?” asks Clint, plucking the toothpicks from the board before he moves to face her fully.

The woman laughs. “Is that what it is?”

Clint shrugs. “Sure, if you want it to be.”

“You’ve got good aim.” She smiles, and Clint immediately thinks that he wants to make her do it again.

“I’m Clint,” says Clint, offering his hand. “How about I get you a drink?”

“Laura,” she answers, returning his handshake. “And you probably shouldn’t do that, Agent Barton, considering that as of tomorrow, I’m your Supervising Officer.”

 

3.

“Agent Barton,” Maria Hill greets. She’s standing behind her desk as Clint enters, cuts an imposing silhouette. And really that’s all she’s been to him so far, a name and a rank, nothing more personal, though he’s heard stories of her leadership skills. And her strictness.

He’s not naive enough to be unaware of the fact that being called into her office ten minutes after stepping off the plane from his first solo field mission is not a good thing.

“Director Hill,” says Clint, swallowing as he nods at her, then cursing himself for the anxiety that’s crawling along the back of his neck. He joined S.H.I.E.L.D. because he was promised more autonomy than what he was allowed as a soldier, and now here he is, like a puppy with his tail between his legs, ready to apologize for every decision he’s just made, if only someone would tell him which ones were the mistakes.

“You want to tell me what I’m seeing here?” asks Hill, handing him a tablet which is playing video footage.

Clint watches himself on the screen, in the smart tuxedo the equipment team outfitted him with for this job. The video is surveillance from the New Orleans casino he’s just left, shows him gambling on a darts game with Joe Hoffman--fake name, most likely--who his S.H.I.E.L.D. backup has just apprehended.

Clint clears his throat. “That’s me, on the assignment I just completed.”

“Yes,” Hill agrees, taking the tablet back from him. “And what are you doing there, on that assignment you just completed?”

“Detaining Hoffman,” says Clint. He’s not dumb, can tell where this is going, where she’s leading him.

“Right,” says Hill. “Except your assignment was surveillance only. Identify your target and alert backup. No contact. _Definitely_ no gambling several thousand dollars worth of S.H.I.E.L.D.’s money.”

Clint sighs. “I won, didn’t I? And you got your man.”

“Not the point,” says Hill, swiping her fingers across the tablet to turn it off, as if she’s dismissing his excuse along with the picture. “You got cocky. First mission, new field clearance, you needed to do more than just surveillance. You needed to show off a little. You put the mission in jeopardy, Barton.”

“I knew I was going to win,” Clint protests, the words slipping out before he realizes how foolish they are. He _had_ known he was going to win, but that wasn’t the reason he did it. The truth is, he’s never been a good liar, doesn’t feel comfortable in his own skin, let alone a cover. He’d needed something to do, something more than just sitting and waiting for backup to materialize or disaster to strike.

Hill crosses her arms, giving him an appraising look. “If I thought that was all there was to it, I would be slapping a monitoring bracelet on you and putting you on probation, Barton. But you know what I think? I think you’re a lot smarter than you want other people to believe.”

Clint can’t find words to answer that, feels unnervingly like Hill might be able to look through him right now, might be able to see all the labels that have followed him since childhood. _Troubled. Underachiever. Problem._

“Putting the mission in jeopardy was careless,” says Hill, when he still hasn’t spoken. “Putting yourself at risk was worse. S.H.I.E.L.D. is invested in you, Barton. Maybe next time you’ll keep that in mind.”

 

4.

It becomes immediately apparent that the Black Widow has no idea how to treat the concept of downtime. So far, she’s sped through her basic training and certifications faster than anyone Clint’s ever met, and it’s not even entirely because S.H.I.E.L.D. is giving her special treatment, very possibly out of fear.

She’s made Level One clearance already, but Clint knows from past experience that that’s only a token rank. She still hasn’t been given the field exam, is wearing at least three different monitoring devices, and is housed in barracks on-base. So it’s not exactly like she has a lot of options for entertainment, but even that doesn’t account for the amount of time she spends in the gym, haunting the various athletic equipment every day before dawn and well after dark.

Clint isn’t entirely sure what it is that leads him to check on her one Friday, nearly two months after he brought her in. It’s just after five, not too ridiculously late yet, but he’s all ready to call it a week. She’s in one of the private training studios today, though the room tends to clear out wherever she goes.

She glances over her shoulder as Clint slips in the door, inclines her head no more than half a centimeter in acknowledgement. As she turns back, he realizes what she’s holding -- a throwing knife, one of several lying on the floor beside her. For a moment a twinge of apprehension washes over him, but the knives are legitimate practice equipment, are outfitted with technology that would have alerted security if they were taken without being properly checked out. And it’s not like she’d need to steal equipment anyway -- Natasha Romanoff is perfectly capable of killing with her bare hands.

There’s a target set up across the room, not the silhouette of a nondescript human figure Clint’s seen before. This one is an oversized bullseye design, and there are already half a dozen knives sunk into it, neatly outlining one of the rings. There aren’t any dead center yet, but he’s immediately sure she’s intended it that way, that her throws so far are the result of considerable skill. As Clint watches, she carefully aligns the blade she’s holding, throwing it with an effortlessness that makes the little thing seem almost weightless. It lands a few inches away from the last one, completing the circle she’s been making.

Clint applauds the throw, grinning when she turns to look at him again. He can’t quite put his finger on what it is that attracts him to Natasha, makes him want to get under her skin, learn a few of her secrets. Maybe it’s ill-advised empathy, a need to help her fit in, now that he’s brought her to S.H.I.E.L.D. Or maybe it’s something less concrete than that, some undeniable instinct. Then again, maybe it’s just his damn death wish talking.

Natasha raises an eyebrow. “Is your Friday night really so sad that you came here to watch me?”

“I’d be tempted to make a comment about the one of us with no social life here,” says Clint, taking a few steps toward her and smiling to undercut the sting of his words, “but you’re the one holding all the knives.”

“You want one?” asks Natasha, plucking one from the ground and holding it out to him.

“You shouldn’t have,” Clint teases, taking it from her. He’s not big on knives, personally, and especially not on throwing them. He’s never put any real effort into that kind of precision but hey, projectiles are his specialty. He lines up his stance as Natasha moves out of his way, feels the weight of the knife for a moment before he lets it fly. It hits dead center, but it’s turned over one too many times in the air, the handle smacking the target and bouncing off.

“Not bad,” Natasha says charitably. “That your first time?”

“Yeah,” Clint admits, because at this point, his ego would be more bruised by this kind of failure if he _had_ prior experience.

She raises an eyebrow, picking up another knife and holding it out to him. “Well, you’re not totally hopeless, then. You want a lesson?”

Clint grins as he takes the knife from her again, lets her begin to adjust his stance. “Sure. Not like I have any other plans tonight.”

 

5.

Tony’s grand tour of the Tower ends on the communal recreation level, because of course it does. And of course Tony would have built the highest tech, most expensive adult playground of a room Clint’s ever seen.

Two entire walls are covered floor to ceiling in digital screens, presumably for watching television or movies, though he isn’t sure how two people would manage to watch different things in here at the same time without going a little nuts from sheer over stimulation. The middle of the space is filled with holographic gaming equipment -- traditional board games with hologram pieces, cards, and even a virtual ping pong table.

Clint watches as Steve hits the button to activate the table and picks up one of the paddles, flipping it around and passing it from hand to hand as if evaluating its weight. After a moment he nods, apparently satisfied, then turns to Thor. “You want to go a few rounds?”

Thor grins, striking one of the momentary poses Clint is absolutely convinced he does on purpose. “I accept your challenge.”

On the other side of the room, Tony and Bruce are talking tech as they flip through channels on one of the giant screens. Might as well be another language as far as Clint’s concerned, and not one he cares to learn. Natasha has found her way to one of the card tables, a look of concentration on her face as she has a conversation with an A.I. dealer. Probably trying to figure out how the thing works, and how long it will take her to outsmart it.

Clint’s about to head back to his new quarters and grab his bow to kill time in a less artificial way when he spots the dartboard on the wall not far from the door. It looks ordinary enough from where he’s standing, but there’s no way he’ll believe Tony would put something so mundane in his new personal playroom.

Deciding that it requires investigation, Clint crosses the few paces over to the board. When he gets within throwing distance, the thing hums to life with yet another holographic display, the boundaries and numbers suddenly illuminated, along with a dozen virtual darts lining the wall beside it. Clint hesitates for a moment before he picks one up, the little cylinder of light making his skin tingle ever so slightly. It’s part of the tech, he knows from his S.H.I.E.L.D. days, just one of many parameters designed to make the hologram feel real in his hand, feel like it has mass and weight.

Lining up the throw, Clint lets the dart fly, watching it land with a _thunk_ which is no less satisfying for the fact that he knows it’s artificial. This time he grabs a handful of darts from the wall, watching as they replenish themselves--an apparently endless supply ready at his disposal. He makes a game of it, hitting each of the double spots first, then all of the triples. He lands a dart dead center without any effort, then decides to try another in the same spot, on instinct.

The second dart goes straight through the first, and the board pulses with light, playing a happy little tune to congratulate him. Clint laughs, then looks at the remaining five darts in his hand. _What the hell_ , he decides, and throws each one at the center, making the board sing over and over again.

When he turns away, dusting his hands on the front of his jeans, he realizes that everyone else has gathered behind him, apparently watching the show. Bruce begins to clap, just for a moment, then stops abruptly as he realizes that nobody else is going to join in.

Clint grins, the emotion that’s swelling in his chest somewhere between embarrassment and pride, or maybe just gratitude for the unlikely group he’s found surrounding him these days.

Without another thought, he plucks a new handful of darts from their resting place, holding them out to his friends. “Anyone else want to play?”

 

+1

“Clint!”

Laura’s voice blows in on the September breeze that’s stirring stray pieces of hay in the barn, smelling of sunlight and change. He doesn’t respond yet, is too caught up watching Lila aim one of her new suction cup darts at the big purple bullseye he painted a few days ago. Her brow is furrowed in the most intense concentration he’s seen all week, and although, strictly speaking, there’s a half dozen technical things he could correct about her stance, right now he doesn’t think he’s ever seen anything more perfect.

Her first two throws go off the board, and her third hits the corner outside of the rings. She doesn’t stop, though, doesn’t get frustrated, just tries again. This time the dart sticks just inside the outermost ring, and she turns around, beaming.

“Got one!”

“You did,” Clint agrees, grinning back.

“Clint,” Laura repeats, and she’s standing just inside the doorway, leaning against the tractor when he turns to meet her eyes. “What did we say about weapons as gifts?” The upward twitch of her lips belies the disapproval of her words.

“Darts are a game, not a weapon,” says Clint, giving her his best innocent face. “And it’s an educational gift.”

Laura rolls her eyes good naturedly. “Well, as long as my children are learning valuable survival skills.”

Having thrown her last dart--this time over the top of the board--Lila retrieves her ammunition before turning back to Clint. “You want to throw one?”

“No,” he laughs gently. “This one’s all you.”

For once, he finds, he’s content to do nothing but watch.


End file.
